


A Bitch of a Bodyguard

by pizzacrusthoe



Series: Brainrot Groupchat Secret Santa 2020 [5]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bodyguard Dream, Explicit Language, Getting Together, Gun Violence, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, One Shot, Plot, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Rich Boy George, We love our boys, Weird Plot Shit, dream is protective, dream is ripped heheh, george is kinda a little shit, they love each other your honor, this is very much plot stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzacrusthoe/pseuds/pizzacrusthoe
Summary: Dream is just trying to do his job; George makes it very difficult for him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Brainrot Groupchat Secret Santa 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091507
Comments: 28
Kudos: 726





	A Bitch of a Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavxndar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavxndar/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Have Nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28239321) by [itsricecakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsricecakes/pseuds/itsricecakes). 



> this was SO fuckin fun to put together, and all my friends are so talented i just AKLJNKawjdnwjkanjwdnkawnkw i love them so much <33 also this is inspired by itsricecake's Bodyguard AU which is FANTASTIC p l e a s e go read it ohmygod
> 
> (i don't condone shoving shipping into George or Dream's faces !!!! please be respectful !!)

The estate felt empty… Cold. The faraway echoing of the electric ice machine rattled around Dream’s brain, bouncing off the marble floors and filling the silent halls. It had been -- Dream glanced down at his silver Rolex, a gift from his employer -- approximately two hours and fifty-seven minutes since George had complained of chills and insisted Dream take his temperature. He had hopped up onto the bathroom counter, his skinny legs barely reaching the tile, and demanded in that bossy, posh little voice that Dream be the one to find the thermometer. His mouth had opened willingly, tongue out and eyelids fluttering as Dream crowded between his open thighs to place the delicate glass tube between those pink, pink lips. George pouted around the thermometer, eyes boring into Dream’s quickly heating face, taunting. Daring. Dream had retreated in a hurry, seeking the chilly evening air to dispel the fantasies trying to invade his mind. With every blink, the image of George below him returned, his gaze dark underneath thick eyelashes, full lips parting to wrap around-

An antique grandfather clock chimed in the sitting room, interrupting the oppressive silence and Dream’s filthy daydream. He groaned and shook his head to try and dispel the villainous thoughts, stiffly gelled blond locks coming loose from their neat peaks. It had now been over three hours, and honestly at this point he was just bored. Would it be weird to check on George? If he was resting, Dream didn’t want to wake him up, but also it would be creepy if he just watched George sleep. But maybe George did actually have a fever and needed an ice pack or something. An Advil maybe. Dream wasn’t opposed to whipping up some chicken soup, either, though he wasn’t very good in the kitchen. Not as good as his mother, anyways.

He decided to go the Advil route, deciding it was more in his realm of obligations; he was a bodyguard, not a nanny, and most _certainly_ not a friend. The embroidered armchair creaked as Dream rose from his slouch, protesting after what was probably its first use in years. Almost every corner of the Davidson mansion was polished to perfection, not a single hair out of place, burnished gold loveseats left to sit and look pretty throughout the many, _many_ rooms. Though unused, there was never any dust or dirt. The staff did their job well, just as he did.

Each _clack_ of Dream’s Oxfords left a hollow feeling in his stomach, every sound seeming too loud without the nagging of a lilting voice to distract him from his thoughts. For some unexplainable reason Dream actually missed the teasing and the bickering; the rare feeling of companionship that George somehow instilled in him. It didn’t make sense. George was his responsibility, just another soft rich boy living off of daddy’s money. So _why was he different?_

The thought refused to leave Dream’s mind as he rummaged through a bathroom’s medicine cabinet, mussing up the neatly organized bottles and boxes. He absentmindedly rattled the cold and sinus capsules on his way to the kitchen, almost getting lost because _apparently_ he had been in the bathroom under the main staircase and not the one beside the secondary staircase. Each wall looked the same, decorative vases and end tables blurring together as Dream tried to imagine a map of the place, but all that filled Dream’s mind was George. George’s exposed pale neck when he threw his head back to laugh at one of Dream’s jokes, George’s dark eyebrows wiggling and curving with his vast array of expressions, George’s slender hands and neat fingernails and dainty wrists…

Stainless steel and spotless granite counters finally greeted him, and Dream’s sweaty palms reached out to grip the rim of the double basin sink. He felt warm all over, his cheeks burning for some reason and his slick black tie constricting breath. Loosening the knot around his neck with one hand and turning on the faucet with the other, Dream splashed some cold water on his face. He couldn’t stop thinking about George, and he wasn’t cooling down even with the chilly water dripping onto his cotton shirt. What was wrong with him? Maybe he had somehow caught what George was sick with.

Speaking of, he really needed -- wanted? -- to go see George. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water, retracing his steps to the base of the opulent main staircase and taking it two steps at a time. George’s bedroom door stared him down from the end of the hall, far too tall and imposing than was necessary -- seriously, Dream was 6’3 and every single entrance in this goddamn house was probably two feet taller. Each step closer to his destination filled Dream with more and more anticipation, but he didn’t know _why_. He’d been inside George’s bedroom before, but only for a couple minutes while George looked for something or another. This was definitely different. His feet stopped an inch from the glistening wood. His knuckles hesitated before rapping quietly against George’s door. He took a fortifying breath and turned the golden knob.

The stillness of the massive room swept over Dream as soon as he crossed the threshold, feeling more wrong, somehow, than the rest of the estate. He was nervous -- why was he nervous? The George-shaped lump under the king sized blue comforter didn’t shift as Dream approached, and Dream wondered if he should just set the glass and pills on the bedside table. _Taking medicine sooner rather than later is always better, baby_ , a familiar voice sang in his ear. The thought of his mother’s caring touch when he was sick as a child, her chamomile tea and soft tissues, brought a smile to Dream’s face. He extended an arm and gently shook what he assumed was George’s shoulder -- which was a lot less bony under the thick bedding -- but George didn’t budge. Lips turning up slightly at the thought of a snoring George with awful bedhead, Dream nudged a little harder before rolling his eyes and grasping the top of the sheets and pulling them down.

His blood ran cold.

Where was he? Where _was he?_

“That little _shit_ ,” Dream hissed, not a soul around to hear him.

_That brat_ , Dream raged internally as he swept out of the bedroom and down the hallway, his pulse pounding, _this is the last fucking time._ He could not _believe_ George pulled this shit again. It was a Friday night in fucking March, the icy streets would be empty and the clubs would be packed to the brim. How the fuck was Dream to find him? He simmered with fury as he stormed down the stairs and snatched his shoulder holster, blazer, and overcoat from a hanger. The front door slammed behind him.

Dream’s fingers were white against the wheel of the sleek black Jaguar as he backed down the long, paved driveway, the thick silver bands encircling his middle and ring fingers pressing uncomfortably into his skin as he throttled the leather. It had already been too long. George could have escaped the moment after Dream had left to take a breather, and the traffic from the suburbs to downtown always sucked up 45 minutes. That meant George had been on his own in the heart of the city for almost three hours. _Fuck_.

He turned away from the packed freeway and sped down deserted side streets, foot pressing harder and harder into the pedal.

-

Dead end after dead end after _fucking_ dead end.

Apparently George had thought it a perfect night to go barhopping, or maybe he was just expecting to be pursued by Dream, because every bouncer Dream talked to reported that George had left after only a couple drinks. For hours and hours Dream circled the hottest and hippest spots of downtown Chicago.

And then the trail ran cold.

It had been almost an hour since anyone had last lain eyes on the brunette, and George would never hit a club outside of the Loop. Luke, an old friend of Dream’s, looked with pity at Dream’s car as he pulled up to the front curb of _The Twitchy Rodent_ for the third time that night. It was a loading zone; Dream shifted to the parking gear.

“Tell me you’ve fucking seen him,” Dream pleaded, voice unsteady with mania as he leapt from the drivers seat and strode to the blond bouncer.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Luke winced, “nothing.”

Dream roared, heart stuttering, and pounded a fist into the brick wall before him, “FUCK. Fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_.” His palms shook in the neon light of the club’s sign, and a couple of bundled up passersby glanced at him with worry and sped up. Luke shot them a placating smile.

“Look, Clay-,” Luke started, backing up a step at the glare Dream trained on him, “ _Dream_. It’ll be fine. You won’t get fired because of one slip-up.”  
Dream guffawed, unhinged. “Fired? _Fired?_ ” He stalked closer to Luke with every panicked word, “You think I care about getting fucking _fired?_ ” Dream’s unsteady fingers clawed at his already tangled blond hair, the gel long sweated away.

“George. _George._ I-,” he gasped, all anger suddenly gone and replaced with debilitating fear. “I can’t let anything happen to George.”

Luke attempted to place a soothing hand on Dream’s shoulder, voice soft and even, “Dream-”

The comfort was shrugged off and Dream turned back to his car, mumbling,

“You don’t understand.”

He wasn’t sure he understood either.

But he couldn’t try to decipher whatever bullshit he was feeling while George was still missing, so instead he buried his emotions deep deep down. As he always did. The car door clicked into place and Dream was swallowed by silence. Bright lights still shone to his right -- Luke looked back at Dream once more before escaping into _The Twitchy Rodent_ \-- but the opposite side of the street was bathed in darkness. Dream stared into the black of night; it was late enough that nobody roamed the below-freezing sidewalks, and Dream felt completely and utterly alone for the first time in weeks. He was reminded of driving with George in the back seat, complaining about Dream’s reckless speed and wonky turns. Every single time Dream would remind him that shotgun was always open, but George would just grin and turn away. He liked to pretend that Dream was just an Uber driver, dragging him from appointment to appointment; they both knew otherwise. It still hurt. Dream always snapped back in those moments, but right now he would do _anything_ to hear George’s melodic voice. Rough leather scratched Dream’s forehead as he leaned against the steering wheel, and he was surprised to find that his cheeks were damp. _What was he going to do?_

A faint buzz startled Dream from his haze, and the dim glow emanating from within his blazer brought with it a flash of hope. Dream scrambled for the inner coat pocket, chest feeling lighter and lighter by the second.

_No Caller ID_

All excitement was stamped out. _What the fuck?_ His cell number was trusted to only his closest friends and colleagues, protected with blockers and backups against spam callers and anyone with malicious intent. This… This wasn’t right. He swiped to accept anyways, fingers trembling as he brought the smartphone to his ear.

“ _Don’t hang up_ ,” a deep voice crackled, “ _we have your son_.”

Son? _A troll._ He pulled the cell back and prepared to end the call, mouth set in a hard line. This was _not_ the fucking time.

“Wait, no-” a weak whisper just barely came through the line, cutting off with a whimper, and Dream froze. A trickle of terror ran down his spine. _No._

_Nonono._

George.

“ _Mr. Davidson you have one hour to collect a hundred thousand in cash. You will drop it off at the address we send you on this number, and we will release your son in one piece. If you do not follow these directions, we will not hesitate. One hour._ ” The phone beeped and went quiet.

Dream’s limbs were shaking uncontrollably, his brain running a mile a minute as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The calm of the night was shattered in an instant as he left his vehicle in a frenzy, determination and dread mingling to create a whole new monster.

-

“You’re going to track this number.” It wasn’t a question.

The recipient of Dream’s stoney words, a lanky man with a thin face and grey streaks in his shaggy red-ish hair, all but recoiled with surprise. His eyebrows rose and he glanced to his right where Luke stood leaning against the dark concrete wall attempting to act as if he couldn’t feel the turbulent energy surrounding the bodyguard.

“I can give you twenty minutes.”

The coder, Floris, whipped back around and stared at Dream, jaw slack and eyebrows reaching for the skies. Luke shuffled his feet slightly, making to walk out of the tiny security room, but Floris stuck a leg out to block the door. One wall was lined with monitors and the desk underneath was crowded with empty vodka bottles and styrofoam cups; Floris lounged in the only chair, barely having to shift position to touch all four corners of the sound-proofed dwelling. His eyes met Luke’s, and he made a little pleading noise in the back of his throat. Luke coughed slightly, avoiding Floris’s gaze,

“You heard him.”

Dream crossed his arms over his broad chest, unflinching,

“You can do it, right?”

Floris looked down at the smartphone and read the text once again, which contained an address somewhere in the warehouse district in the outskirts of the city, and sighed. He spun around and pulled a crusty old keyboard closer, beginning to type, his fingers almost blurring with their speed.

“I can do it.”

-

Each minute that passed was one more minute that George wasn’t in his sight, another minute that he couldn’t be there for George. His impatience was palpable. He felt helpless, idle, unable to do anything but stand and listen to Floris’s rapid clicking as his fingers flew over words and numbers Dream couldn’t begin to decipher. But he trusted Luke, so he would trust Luke’s colleague as well.

As quickly as it had begun, the typing stopped, and Floris reached for a notepad and pen.

“They’re about 20 blocks north of the address they gave you, in an abandoned warehouse. Here’s the building number.” A small paper covered in barely legible writing was stuffed into Dream’s hand, and he was in motion. He swept out of Floris’s hideaway into the back of the club, which was settling down in the early hours of the morning. A gently pulsating beat jolted Dream’s bones as he strode through the empty dance floor, leaving Luke in the dust. Crisp air greeted his face as he finally left the stuffy building, the scent of sweat and alcohol finally behind him as he climbed into his waiting car. A parking ticket was tucked into his mirror. He ignored it.

“DREAM,” Luke was panting slightly when he got to the passenger door, but when he went to pull the handle it wouldn’t budge. “Dream, man-” The Jaguar rumbled to life and Luke’s face fell. “Clay, c’mon!”

Dream pulled away from the curb and didn’t look back.

The drive dragged on and on, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. All of the streets were deserted, the buildings spaced further and further apart as Dream travelled away from the city center. As the industrial district came into view, the sun began to rise on a maze of empty warehouses -- each looked the same as the last, copy-pasted in the yellowing light of morning. Floris’s note was clenched in his fist still, a physical reminder of what he had to do. He steadily approached the location.

It was just another building, the same as every other; row upon row, avenue by avenue -- but only one held George. He parked a block away.

Nothing moved among the towering steel structures except for Dream; his footsteps were light and calculated as he circled his target, searching for a way in. The main entrance, at least 10 feet tall, was padlocked and chained with no signs of tampering, so Dream continued to traverse. Eventually he came upon a small side door nestled in an alleyway, slightly ajar with voices echoing from within. Dream’s hand disappeared within his blazer and withdrew with a handgun; he clicked off the safety and shouldered the door open a little. The voices became clearer.

“What do we do if there’s no money when we get there” A nasally male voice whined, anxious. He couldn’t be more than twenty feet away.

The response was gruff, slightly farther, “It’ll be there.”

“But if it’s _not_ -”

“ _It’ll be there._ These fuckers are loaded. Just look at this guy, never worked a day in his life.” There was a _thump_ and someone moaned. _George_. Dream felt his nails dig into his palm.

Barrelling headfirst into a ransom situation was probably not the best idea, but Dream wasn’t thinking rationally. And it was only two guys -- they wouldn’t stand a chance. He kicked the metal with force and it slammed open with a resounding _BANG_. So much for subtlety. His legs kicked into gear and he marched in, arms extended at chest height and hands gripping cold metal, barrel forward.

The reaction was instantaneous. One of the kidnappers, small and weasley looking, instinctively put his hands in the sky, his pinched face terrified. The other, beefy and large, was quick to pull out his own weapon, battered and old but clearly loaded. But he didn’t aim for Dream. Instead, he pointed it to his left; Dream glanced over and his heart stopped. He had expected worse, but the sight of George limp, bruised, and tied to a chair still filled him with pain and regret and _rage_. His finger ached to pull the trigger; his vision clouded with red hot fury.

“Who the fuck are you?” The armed man asked, surprisingly calm despite the sudden intrusion. His reflexes had been fast, he was obviously skilled, and he held the power of the situation in his meaty fist. At any moment he could end George’s life. Everything was on the line.

“I _said_ ,” the man holding the gun extended his arm further, barrel still directed at George, threatening, “who the fuck are you?”

Dream’s eyes flickered back to George, who was still unconscious, and noticed an abundance of blood dripping down his forehead from his hairline -- he had been knocked out cold. Dream was deafened by the sound of his pulse thundering.

“If you’re not gonna tell me what the fuck you’re doing here, I don’t think you’ll mind if we just…” He jerked his head slightly, and Dream felt the presence of the second man at his back; in his upset he had forgotten about the smaller kidnapper. _Fuck_. Then he heard the rattling of chains and almost laughed. _That shrimp had no chance._

A hasty plan formed in Dream’s head.

The man reached from behind to grab Dream’s raised arms but, in the split second before he could, Dream dropped his gun and pivoted in place. He pulled the mousey kidnapper roughly in front of him to act as a human shield and lunged forward, all before his gun hit concrete. There was a shot, and Dream heard it ricochet wildly off of steel. Throwing the tiny man to the side, Dream continued ahead and saw panic flash in the eyes of the broad man as Dream bowled into him, knocking them both to the ground. Dream wrestled the gun out of his hand with ease and glared down at the incapacitated criminal. Oh, how Dream _longed_ to put a bullet between his eyes. He just barely stopped himself, instead utilizing blunt force and hitting the kidnapper over the head twice.

So many things could have gone wrong. The man could have shot George; Dream had only assumed that he would act on fear and attempt to shoot at an attacker rather than a hostage, and, thankfully, self preservation had overridden reason. But as soon as he saw that his partner was on the other end of the barrel, he had fired wide. Thank god. Acting fast, Dream secured the two men in the chains intended for him and finally was at George’s side.

His dark hair was matted with blood, one eye black and nose dripping red. Zip ties secured his wrists and ankles to the knobbly chair. Dream pulled a switchblade from his pocket and sawed at the plastic, freeing George’s lolling limbs. The jostling didn’t wake him up, so Dream stooped and brought his arms up from under George, pulling him close. Unconsciously George burrowed into the warmth of Dream’s torso, and Dream stared down at his friend. _Friend._

He started back to the car.

-

The calm of the hospital did nothing to ease Dream’s nerves; his bouncing leg jostled the bench of the waiting room. His ass had been parked, unmoving, for thirty minutes now, just _waiting_ . Waiting for news, waiting for George to wake up, waiting for _something_ . The reasonable side of his brain assured that George would be fine, that it had only been a couple of cuts and bruises, but another part of him wanted to assume the worst. What if there was internal bleeding or… Or infection? What if he never had the chance to tell George- to tell him… _anything_?

“For George Davidson?”

Dream was on his feet in an instant, startling the short nurse before him. He tried to appear smaller, less intimidating, but he still felt out of place with the clean white walls and bleached scent. The crusted blood splattered on his shirt definitely didn’t help. He cleared his throat.

“Room 211. Don’t make any loud noises.”

Dream nodded and walked to the hallway, picking up speed as he found a staircase and headed upwards. Open rooms and windowed doors faded into the background as he spotted the shiny number 211 at the end of the corridor. It came closer and closer, but Dream didn’t feel himself moving; some unknowable force dragged him across linoleum, a hook attached to the left side of his chest. Dream fell against the door and tried to steady himself. His hand moved of its own accord, grasping the cold knob and quietly twisted inwards.

George was sitting up, already changed into a hospital gown, his thin frame hidden under a dingy blanket. All of the blood was wiped away, leaving his pale skin to glow in the bright LEDs. Dream drank in the sight of him, scanning his exposed arms for injury before bringing his gaze up. His breath caught in his throat. George looked… Worried. Sad, almost. He shifted uncomfortably under Dream’s eyes.

“I-”

“You-”

They both stopped and stared at each other for a moment. Dream shut the door behind him and gestured with his hand,

“You go first.”

“Clay,” George began, voice soft, “ _Dream_. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

“What?” It came out harsher than intended. Did George legitimately think that he was angry? _Angry?_ When _George_ was the one in that hospital bed, because _he_ hadn’t been by George’s side. He was supposed to be George’s protector, and he had failed that duty. George was everything, and he was nothing.  
George winced and tried again, “I’m sorry-”

Dream strode forward until he was by the head of the bed, and kneeled as to see George clearer. He clutched at George’s hand, resting on the comforter, enveloping the smooth skin with both of his own callused, rugged ones. His green eyes swam with regret as he choked on his words,

“No. Nonono, _I’m_ sorry. I failed you. I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me. I couldn’t- I-”

And then George was kissing him. Dream was frozen, his heart breaking and mending. He didn’t deserve George’s forgiveness, but he wanted and wanted and _wanted_. So he leaned in and cradled George’s face with one hand, rising from his knees and letting himself be drawn onto the bed. He tried to say everything in that kiss. _He was sorry. He had never felt this way before. He would do anything for George, for this. He loved-_

George broke away, resting his forehead against Dream’s, his eyelids closed,

“Sorry,” his lips quirked and Dream stared at them in wonderment, “concussion.”

Dream exhaled and felt himself smile, lighter than he had been in years. He drank in the sight of George up close, his flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelids, and promised himself that he would not ruin this. This was sacred and finally, _finally_ his.

George was his.

His thumb brushed over the softness of George’s cheek and the smaller man pressed closer and sighed,

“I’ve wanted this for so long, you don’t even know.”

Dream chuckled, giddy and soft, and pulled George into his chest to hold him close,

“Oh,” he rested his chin on the brunette’s dark hair, “I think I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PLEASE READ ALL THE OTHER WORKS IN THE SERIES!!!! ALL THESE AUTHORS ARE SO TALENTED GO KUDOS AND COMMENT ON THEIR STUFF!! I WUV MY FWIENDS
> 
> also considering leaving kudos or commenting on this or even subscribing because uh only .69 of my readers are subscribed blah blah blah


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